Singing, Devotion, and Being Heard

​I sing in the church, in the annual processions honoring the Virgin of Guadalupe, Maria and Jose and Jesus, Candelaria, los Magos. The devotion, living spirituality and connection with these deities and the community touches me so deeply. Who would’ve thought that I, a jewish girl from Chicago would develop a real, palpable relationship with Jesus and Mary, not to mention my dear Virgin of Guadalupe? I feel  profound gratitude to be permitted to sing with the ritual leader and several others who support the call and response chanting and prayers.

It is courageous of me and natural, feeling moved to sing and support the ancient processions as devotion for and with love and gratitude. And aliveness. I never had a strong singing voice and not the greatest tone, while my ear is hyper sensitive and on-key. Such am I and is my life: I can be acutely critical of other and self, with limitations in my ability to change these perceived deficits. This clash and crash often leading to frustration, disappointment, sadness and toward myself: self-flagellation. 
 
Last night, while singing in the wee hours, one of the magi told me he doesn’t hear my voice. “Nada”.

This triggered my childhood doubt that I’m not good enough to belong. Whatever his message was, (he simply didn’t hear my voice and wanted to, to, ”If you’re going to sing and be useful you should be heard," the message I took in was, “You’re not good enough to belong, you shouldn’t be here.”

Oh, wahhhh. So I felt that. Knowing my propensity to go around and around in my head repeating and staying stuck on the same thoughts and feelings of doom and not good enough-ness, I did what I could to infiltrate the belief in my failure as a Being, with other possibilities about what he meant, to offer other perspectives with more equanimity and encouragement and honoring, while accepting “reality” as part of the formulation. It helped a little. Enough to sleep by the time I got home and lay my head to rest. It was 3 a.m. though, so that was helpful.

Digesting Life

Round and round thinking can wake me and keep me up at night.
 
As I’m simultaneously working to improve my digestion, this all seems parallel and part of the same issue: digesting life. Believing I can digest life. Believing it’s okay to let “errors” go and move on. “Really?” I say, incredulous. But that’s my desire and aim.

In the morning when I awoke all I wanted to do was take a walk in nature. I needed her. “That would help,” I thought. But time was short and all of a sudden there were five minutes until the Mass. Should I even go? I didn’t feel like it. I felt too bad and incapable to face the criticicism I knew this Magi held for me. I didn’t even want to show up to sing. I could just quit.

But I pushed myself to go, somehow, remembering how every time I haven’t gone to a ritual tradition here for timidity, I have regretted it later.

So I went. I arrived a bit late. All seats were taken. That’s okay, gives me freedom to move around, I surmised. While the sacerdote gave his sermon, I stood watching the tropical leaf fronds being blown by the cool and gentle wind. I removed my sombrero as the men do, for respect, and let the sunshine warm and penétrate my face. I observed all the community members with their baby Jesus’s in their baskets, there to be blessed, being held and cuddled with such love, gentleness, respect, by women and  even young and old  men. It surprised me to see such tenderness from rlder campesinos, their Dios Niño carried well and consciously in their dry and wrinkled, much used hands. They love their baby Jesus’s and I shouldn’t be surprised at the tenderness, as men  here commonly display loving participation with physicality as affection and protection of their children. Of course, the Baby Jesus is different. This is Jesus. And no matter what happens in the course of the year, the people hold this love and adoration in their hearts.

Errors and opportunities for repair

The sacerdote spoke of errors and how as humans we make them, but that it’s important to repair them, indicating to me our humanity and our freedom and choice and the gift of time giving us this possibility.

I stood there watching the large leaf fronds waving in the breeze, obscuring the view of the sacerdote and the altar, hearing his words. I energetically prostrated myself before the Lord (God, Supreme Being, Creator,) and lay my “worst” foibles on the low stone altar table in my mind’s eye and presenting myself before “Him”, said, “Can I be aceptable? With my crooked eyes and voice that isn’t loud? Can I be aceptable?” Forgiven? And there laid before the Divine Being who created All including me, I felt love toward me. Unconditional. Absolute acceptance. This is being Saved. And so I was saved, loved, accepted by That which created all, “even though.”

At the end of the service, I went up to Maria, the ritual leader and asked if they were going to sing now. She told me when and which, and I joined her and the Magi on the “stage” (where the altar was.)

We sang. I sang. I did my best to belt it out and be a heard and supportive voice. So the people would hear me and know and recognize that I, the gringa, was up there singing too. I dismantled myself from any thoughts of wondering what they thought of me up there, which I somehow easily do, during these acts of devotion. Still, the push and feedback from the Magi impacted me. I found myself trying to be present, part of the group more, a voice that was part of the din and, yes, part of it.

Another of the three Magi commented that I had learned the songs well. Maria added that I sing well and strongly.

Later, in the church as we bade farewell to the Pilgrims and Baby Jesus, desiring that he is happy with his human birth (these were some of the lyrics,) I found myself next to the Magi who had told me he couldn’t hear me. I did all I could to sing and have my voice reach the microphone, too. I did my best to hear myself,  my  own voice amongst the others, including his, which was loud and off key. I strove to raise my voice to be heard in the mix of keys being projected and to maintain and be a model to all, of the key we were actually in.
 
Being heard
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I pushed myself to have my voice heard by myself, the congregation, and the other singers, including the off key loud singing Magi who couldn’t hear me the night before.

At the end, I thought to ask him, “Did you hear me this time?” and imagined that if he replied he still didn’t, I would ask, “But were you listening?” Thinking, “to hear me, you have to listen.” Not all do, can or resonate with what I say or sing with my voice. My spirit and soul through my voice.